


Sense Interpretation

by Mab (Mab_Browne)



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Ficlet, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-17
Updated: 2013-05-17
Packaged: 2017-12-12 03:08:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/806466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mab_Browne/pseuds/Mab
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crime scenes are a shitty deal...</p><p>Originally posted May 2009 at ASR3</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sense Interpretation

My hands were still shaky pouring out the tea. Totally, absolutely tea, not coffee; adrenalin had already jazzed me up, and not even throwing up when we got home had brought me down.

"I'm really, really, sorry, Jim. I mean..."

He shrugged and took a swallow of beer. Jim has good bones in his face and right then it seemed like they were all pressing out against his skin. He needed a shave, and the stubble greyed all of his face, not just his jaw.

"It was pretty bad. You kept it together until we got back. I should have told you to butt out when I realised how bad it was going to be."

"I'm supposed to back you up on the senses, and if anything could put you into overload..." I stopped. I didn't want to actually put words to what we'd seen in that tiny, scuzzy apartment.

"Sandburg, you did fine." Exasperated emphasis on the 'fine'. Sure. Every cop needed a partner who was going to have nightmares when he finally crawled into bed and dragged the covers over his head.

"If you say so." God, I sounded like I was fifteen again, and I tried to lift my game, sound like a grown-up, talk about what was really worrying me. "But – I feel like I'm falling down on the job, man, I'm losing it and it has to be a hundred times worse for you with your senses – "

His beer was on the table, put down hard enough to make a small, sharp crack. I wondered if Jim's excellent hearing could catch the slosh of the drink inside the bottle.

"Chief," he began. He shook his head. "You're forgetting something." He moved to me and crouched down beside me. "I'm a cop, and before that I was a soldier, and I found out what violent death is like a long time ago. Crime scenes are a shitty deal because of what's happened there, because of what the blood _means_. Smelling it better doesn't change a damn thing about that." That made sense, I supposed. "Sandburg, you're not a cop, and if anyone screwed up at that godawful scene it was me. Okay?"

I guessed that he really meant that - there he was, this big man making himself small, talking in this soft gentle voice, and I was angry with both of us, because I felt like such a pathetic wuss. But I was even angrier with whoever had made such a fucking disgusting mess of a fellow human being.

I took a sip of tea. It was still nearly scalding hot, and it hurt my throat. I didn't care.

"Okay. I get it." I looked down at Jim – novelty value there, if nothing else. "The senses don't make it worse. Do they make it better? Knowing that you have a better chance of catching the bastards who do those things?" Oh, I was doing great, making it all about me. What a prince. But I could still feel the tension down my spine while I waited for an answer.

Jim's face changed from gentle to sort of non-committal, and I felt my stomach clench. He stood, and then he nodded, like he'd decided something just then. "They're a tool. They're a good tool. And we _will_ catch that bastard, Chief. Promise." He smiled, wearily, comfortingly, and then he sat down beside me at the table, and he drank his beer, and I drank my tea.


End file.
